Murder in Orbit (11 page)

That caught me by surprise. Because it was of such interest to my grandfather, I had been following the political conflict over that kind of research for the last couple of years. As far as I knew, it had been squashed on the grounds that it was a real money waster. That was a pretty good joke, considering the way the government was throwing money around on other things. My grandfather's opinion was that the underlying motive was fear of success; there was a powerful political-religious coalition that really didn't want to find anyone else out there—and certainly didn't want to do anything that would attract their attention if they were there.

“How are you getting away with that?” I asked.

Dr. Puckett put a finger beside his nose and gave me a conspiratorial wink. “I keep my mouth shut. At least, most of the time. There are people who know what I'm up to, of course. You can't keep a project this big, involving this much equipment, totally secret. But it's nothing unusual. There are a lot of scientists in ICE-3 working on projects that aren't officially approved. It's called bootleg research, and if you want my opinion, it's the most exciting stuff going on out here.”

I wondered briefly if Dr. Puckett was conducting his search for alien intelligence because it interested him, or simply because he wasn't supposed to. I decided that wasn't fair. For all his outrageous behavior, he was a scientist right to the core. He couldn't be bothered with something that didn't interest him.

But I still wondered what he was trying to tell me. Surely not that the trouble in the BS Factory had something to do with aliens?

“So, what's the clue?” I asked as we were leaving the room a few minutes later.

Dr. Puckett rapped me on the head with his knuckles. “Good God, boy!” he cried. “When are you going to learn to think?”

And that was all the answer I could get out of him.

Chapter 16

More Problems

My father is a physicist. My mother specializes in fusion techniques. We give new meaning to the phrase “nuclear family.”

This fact seems to carry over into our family arguments. Generally speaking, the best way to measure them is in megatons.

I mention that now because we had a several megaton blowout that evening. It started because my father had found out about the incident with the scooter, and he was angry.

Very angry.

“Why didn't you call one of us?” he shouted (over and over again). “One of us should have been notified!”

“But I was all right,” I kept saying. “Nothing really happened.”

“Nothing happened?” cried my mother. “You were trapped in a scooter that's currently making a oneway trip out of the solar system. Then you were stranded, alone, in space for three hours. You ran out of air. You almost died. And you say
‘nothing happened'?”

“I meant I was fine when it was all over. If there had been anything wrong with me, of course I would have gotten ahold of you. I just didn't want to bother you.”

That was true. But it wasn't the whole story. The thing was, I had been so busy from the time I woke up in the rocket with Helen and Cassie to the time I left Dr. Puckett's observatory that contacting my parents had never crossed my mind. Even so, I still couldn't see what the fuss was all about. It's not like anything terrible had actually happened. Just almost.

I think the real problem was the way my father heard about the incident. He has a friend in Traffic Control, and after Dr. Puckett and I reported the mishap with the scooter, this guy decided to call Dad and fill him in on the details. Hearing the story from someone else, instead of me, was what really had him riled up. At least, that was my opinion.

I said so.

That didn't improve matters any, and we spent some more time yelling at each other. I guess I probably said some things I shouldn't have. I
know
they said some things they shouldn't have.

It got worse and worse, until finally I decided I had had enough of the whole stupid argument and went storming into my bedroom. I slammed the door (which is a relatively stupid thing to do, since it only makes other people madder) and sat down to call my grandfather.

That was when the really terrible thing happened.

I waited for my grandfather to appear. What I got on the screen instead was my father's face, which was still dark with anger. “Forget it, Rusty,” he growled. “I'm not going to have you running to your grandfather for sympathy every time you think you're being mistreated. I've locked your line. You'll just have to do something else instead. Given your last set of grades, you might consider studying, for a starter.”

He clicked off. I was left staring at a blank screen and thinking things about my father that it is, believe me, better not to think.

The worst thing was, I hadn't been calling Gramps just to complain about my parents, though I probably would have started out with that. I was calling because I needed his help to sort out the things that had happened to me that day—including that strange scene where Dr. Puckett had given me a “clue” to what he thought was going on in the BS Factory.

In the end, I spent the evening at my computer, making notes on everything that had happened. I typed out a list of all the events and the times that they had occurred. Then I went over and over it, looking for connections, trying to make some kind of sense out of it all. I even ran a couple of pattern-seeking programs.

No luck.

By the time I finally fell asleep, I was as mystified as ever.

The next morning we met in Dr. Puckett's office for a brief strategy session.

On the wall behind his desk he had created a list of the total staff of the BS Factory, from the seven senior scientists down through the custodial workers.

There were thirty-four names in all, including mine.

“We are about to make an assumption,” said Dr. Puckett. “The reasoning for it goes like this—”

He put his huge hands in front of him and began ticking off points on his tobacco-stained fingers.

“One: Yesterday, someone at the BS Factory tried to kill Rusty.

“Two: The only reason we know of for someone to want to kill this fine young man is that he spent the day asking questions someone didn't want answered—questions about the body in the waste tank.

“Three: While it is not a dead certainty, it seems reasonable to assume that the two incidents are connected—which means it is likely that the body did indeed come from the BS Factory.

“Four: That means we can set aside the rest of our suspects for now and concentrate our efforts in this one place. Which is why Rusty and Cassie are going to spend the day poking around over there.”

He smiled wickedly. “But before you go, I want you to look through these dossiers.”

He slid several folders across his desk. I took them and whistled in astonishment. There were seven in all—a complete “Eyes Only” file on each of the Mad Scientists.

“I pulled them out of the main computer last night,” said Dr. Puckett. He turned to Dr. Chang. “Helen, I want you to initiate a visit with Hank Smollin. See what you can find out from him.”

Helen nodded.

Dr. Puckett then proceeded to astound us all with his next announcement: “As for myself, it's likely I will run into Rusty and Cassie, since I, too, am going to visit the BS Factory today.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Helen. It was clear from the tone of her voice that she didn't like this idea at all.

“I've been feeling a little peaked lately,” said Dr. Puckett piously. “I just decided that I need a complete checkup—”

“—from your personal physician, Antoine Twining,” said Helen, finishing his sentence for him. She sighed. “I should have seen this one coming.”

“Of course you should have,” said Dr. Puckett smugly. “It makes perfect sense, don't you think?”

“Perfect,” said Helen sardonically. “After all, your concern for your health is legendary. Why, I remember the last time you granted an interview. The lead sentence in the story was your now famous proclamation that you are, and I quote, ‘the most gleefully unfit person in the entire solar system.'”

“I've always liked that comment,” said Dr. Puckett serenely. “It seemed to encapsulate my personality rather nicely.”

“It certainly provides a sense of your ego,” snapped Helen. “But given that, who do you think is going to believe you when you say you want a physical—much less one that you have to leave your office to get?”

“Why, no one. That's the wonderful thing about this. It makes a perfect excuse for me to go over there. But at the same time there won't be a shred of doubt in anyone's mind that I'm really there for some other reason. It should strike a little fear into our enemy's heart—usually a worthwhile thing to do. Besides, while I'm there I'll have a chance to do some looking around on my own. No offense to Rusty and Cassie, but there's nothing like seeing things with your own eyes.”

“And will you really get a physical?” asked Helen warily.

“I had a physical just six months ago,” replied Dr. Puckett.

Helen snorted. “Twining stopped by, drew a blood sample, and gave you a lecture on your eating habits. That does not constitute a physical in anyone's mind but yours, Elmo. I repeat my question: Are you really going to get a physical?”

Dr. Puckett made an expression of distaste. “I suppose I'll have to,” he said. “Just to keep up appearances.”

I could sense Helen's disapproval fading. I had come to realize that taking care of Dr. Puckett was one of her main jobs. She might never have a chance like this again, and she knew it.

“Now get moving,” said Dr. Puckett brusquely. “I'll meet you over there.”

Millicent Carter looked surprised to see me. “Rusty! The way the guys from Traffic Control talked, I didn't expect to see you around until sometime next week.” She tilted her head sideways, examined me for a moment, then said, “I think you're smart to be out flying right away. Wait too long after an experience like that and you may never get started again.”

That's probably true. I had had trouble getting started even that morning. In fact, if Cassie hadn't been with me, I might have convinced myself to put the whole thing off till another day. But I wasn't about to admit I was afraid to fly again in front of Cassie. Besides, just having someone with me made it easier. One of the worst things about what had happened the day before had been the aloneness of it all.

I started to say something, but Millie cut me off. “Listen, kid,” she said, taking me by the arm. “I'm sorry.”

“Hey, Millie—it wasn't your fault. Something went wrong with the scooter. Keeping those things in running order isn't your job.”

“Yeah, I know. But somehow I feel responsible anyway. I suppose it's the mother in me. Now—are you gonna introduce me to your lady friend? Or do I have to do it myself?”

After I performed the introductions, Cassie and I headed into the BS Factory proper. Before we had gone twenty feet, I heard someone call my name from behind. I turned and saw Dr. Charles Hulan, the oldest and probably the testiest member of the Mad Scientists' Club, drifting down the corridor in our direction. He was clutching a stack of papers that went from his navel to his chin. Once he had our attention, he suggested that we help him.

Actually, “suggest” is probably too polite a description. Dr. Hulan's exact words were: “Rusty, stop flapping your gums and make yourself useful!”

I relieved him of part of the load. Cassie lifted another eight or nine inches of paper from the stack.

Dr. Hulan looked considerably happier.

After we had deposited the papers in his office, I introduced Cassie and asked Dr. Hulan to explain his work to her.

Have I told you Rusty McPhee's First Law of Scientific Discourse? It goes like this: No matter how cranky or withdrawn they may seem, asking scientists to explain their work is like firing the starting gun for a race; the words are barely out of your mouth before they're off and running. This can cause a real problem if their work is classified, in which case the poor scientist is torn between two powerful but conflicting urges: the need to babble about what he's doing, and the need to avoid having some government agency bust her chops. In those circumstances, the poor creatures usually start several sentences they can't finish, move on to unconnected words, blush, begin to sweat, and finally suffer a functional breakdown.

I'm certain there are exceptions to this rule. Dr. Hulan was not one of them.

We got the complete tour, or nearly so.

It was mind-boggling. I barely knew Dr. Hulan, and that was only because he occasionally came into our lab to argue with Dr. Twining. I had been totally unaware of what he was working on.

Nanotechnology is the name for it, and it's one of those things where if he ever gets it right, it's going to change the world. He says there are a lot of scientists working on it. I think that's a little scary.

Basically, he's designing ways to manufacture things at the molecular level. For example, he showed us a situation where he was
growing
copper wire. He said by fiddling with the receptor molecules, he could adjust the thickness and the density of the wire. He claimed if they ever got the technology perfected, they would be able to grow anything.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Anything,” he repeated, with a shrug. “Rockets, computers, clothes. It will change the world in ways we can't imagine.”

“This guy scares me,” whispered Cassie once, when Dr. Hulan was a few steps ahead of us.

“He's no gruffer than Dr. Puckett,” I replied.

“No, I mean what he's
doing
scares me. It's too weird for words.”

I didn't reply—partly because I agreed with her, partly because before I could think of anything to say we were interrupted by Dr. Durkin's voice, which came into the room via the intercom.